


Overlaid with Gold

by thegreatwordologist



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas' POV, First Meetings, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spoilers, ace characters, canon compliant (sort of), non-romantic soulmates, non-sexual soulmates, un-betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatwordologist/pseuds/thegreatwordologist
Summary: Everyone wore rings, though few enough wore them on both hands.  Sometimes, Douglas wished the rings he wore hid color, rather than a lack of it.





	1. Purple Permanent Marker

**Author's Note:**

> I'm coming off a lengthy writer's block, and I couldn't resist digging into my love for Cabin Pressure to spark a bit of inspiration. I've also wanted to play with the idea of soulmate marks for a while, and now seemed like the perfect time.

The first time Douglas met Carolyn, they shook hands and she sized him up with a pleasant smile and sharklike eyes. He'd realized immediately that the look came naturally to her, and hadn't been at all upset when his own charming smile and flirtatious tone were met with a haughty sniff and a pointed look down at his hands. He had been gratified by the slight widening of her eyes when he spread all of his fingers out as though to say, "Look me over as much as you like." But he was confident enough to take a glance at her hands in turn.

Her hands were wrinkled, the skin looking a little like soft, worn parchment along the back of her hand, and her nails were neatly manicured, varnished with a color that suited the fuschia undershirt to her uniform, and unadorned save for the two rings on her left hand. He saw no strip of color ringing her right hand, and nodded to himself before looking back up into her eyes, and he was greeted with a knowing look as she welcomed him to MJN Air.

That night, as he settled into bed, he looked down at his own hands. But he didn't have to in order to know what she'd seen: one gold ring on his left ring finger, a little battered but clean and thick and shining in the dim light as Helena finished up in the bathroom. A gold and black band on his right, middle finger, gift from his entirely-too-understanding first wife after the birth of their daughter, and inscribed with the year of her birth. 

As Helena slid into bed, he pulled himself away from the rings and reached to shut off the light, grateful she wasn't one to go looking under the rings. She might not have been as understanding as Imogen, really.

\---

Everyone wore rings, though few enough wore them on both hands. There were lines of delicately knitted cloth rings for baby's hands, allowing the parents to accustom their children to the day-to-day feel of a ring around the finger while protecting them from the outside world. Douglas still had Emeline's first ring, a soft pink stretchy bit that he kept carefully preserved alongside her first tooth. He knew that the ring hadn't hidden any strip of color when she was young. But sometimes that happened, he'd read.

Occasionally, a child might meet their soulmate on the playground, and the color would come while they were still young. Douglas, who resolutely ignored his weaknesses, also ignored the flare of wistfulness at the thought of meeting a soulmate so early the first time it occurred. The second and third time, too. But after two failed marriages and a third that seemed far more fragile than he let on to the outside world, it wasn't wistfulness that flared within him. It was bitterness.

Five decades had come and gone, and no color. Oh, there'd been tan lines and scars and on one memorable occasion, a three-day line of purple permanent marker when his daughter declared that _she_ was his soulmate, because no one would ever been as important to her as he was. Sometimes on layovers, when he was sitting in the hotel bar with a glass of apple juice, he could feel the purple tip against his skin again, and he wished that the marker had lived up to its name. Those were the nights he most wanted to trade the apple juice for whisky, and that was the mark that kept him from ever doing it.

\---

Arthur didn't wear rings. Douglas hadn't commented on it, per se, but Carolyn's sharp eyes had caught his surprised look when he shook the steward's hand and the way his eyes fastened on the thin line of fuchsia on Arthur's right hand. On his right _ring_ finger, in fact - a finger not usually associated with soul-stripes. She said not a word as he looked, and once he'd looked up at her, she'd sent Arthur off on a search for coffee with one sharp word.

"Don't comment on it," she directed him, already dictatorial despite the fact that Douglas had only been employed two days now. True to his nature, he immediately opened his mouth to counter the demand, and she sighed and pointed to the seat across the desk.

"Fine, fine! Yes, he has a soul mate. Of course he does. Everyone does. You know that." Her eyes challenged him to argue the point, and Douglas shrugged cavalierly.

"As you say," he agreed, though he doubted those words. He'd never had a soul mate. Perhaps not everyone did. "Still, fuchsia's an unusual color. Though it rather compliments his shirt." He scored with that, and found that Carolyn was surprisingly lovely when she blushed and huffed.

"The shirt was chosen because of it, not the other way round." She stared at him a moment longer, then sighed and folded her hands together atop her weathered desk. "Arthur's innocent. _Not_ in the way you think," she immediately added, clearly trying to cut off whatever snarky response he might have, though Douglas hadn't been intending to say anything. "But he's vulnerable, and the sorts of girls he likes... well," she sniffed, eyes hard, "they wouldn't be good for him. Not long term. That's one thing the universe got right, at least."

"Then who?" Douglas asked, honestly curious. 

"Me." At his shock, she actually snarled. "Don't you go getting any wrong ideas in your head, Douglas Richardson, or you're welcome to find another place that'll take a pilot with sticky fingers." He flinched a little at the reference to his past, and she nodded once in victory. "Soulmates aren't always romantic. Nor are they sexual unless you make them so. What they are is a place to trust your heart."

Douglas thought of Emeline and the purple permanent marker, and nodded slowly. "I suppose they are, at that." 

"Besides," Carolyn sniffed, calmer now that he'd agreed. "He loses rings."

And that was the end of the talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't remember if the show had given Douglas' daughter a name, so I fell back on one of my two favorite names for her. If it did, please let me know what episode so that I can listen to it again? Thanks!
> 
> ETA: Thank you to [MontMomo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MontMomo/pseuds/MontMomo) for letting me know about Douglas' daughter. I appreciate the help!


	2. Not Married Then?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe... maybe Captain Crieff wouldn't be so bad, really.

Douglas was aware that he hadn't made a good impression on Martin the first time they'd met. Oh, he'd been civil enough, but only so far as it took to keep the irate badger known as Carolyn Knapp-Shappey away from his jugular. He could see the way Martin's eyes narrowed at the clipped, precise greeting he gave. He could see the way the man glanced down at his fists in calculation (and how could he relax them when not ten minutes before he'd been informed he was being _demoted_?!) But there hadn't been anything _Captain Crieff_ could call him out for, and so Martin had finally turned on his heel and left, and Douglas had turned to Carolyn.

"You can't be serious," he demanded, his voice low and vicious. "He's young enough to be my son."

"Then it's a good thing that girl of yours gave you some practice," was Carolyn's response, while Douglas seethed. "We needed a new pilot. You've run off all the others." If she was aware of Douglas' impulse to hit her, she gave no hint of it. Douglas could feel his nails biting into his palm.

"And the demotion? You can't honestly mean..." She didn't let him finish.

"I can and I do. As I say, Douglas, you've run the rest off. It's this, or I throw you out completely, so do tell me if I made the right choice?" She waited a beat, then nodded. "Thought so. Enjoy your new captain, _First Officer Richardson_." And with a victoriously sharklike smile, she left.

...Carolyn was not a woman to cross, apparently.

Douglas sat down in the portacabin heavily, willing his hands to relax from fists and getting his breathing under control. It was nearly five minutes before he could think about the whole thing rationally enough to take stock of his situation, and he rather wished he had a drink to drown himself in.

Perhaps three pilots had been one too many for him to run off, but they'd all been such annoying little toss-pots! Still, she might've overlooked the first, if he had shared with her Greg's less-than-flattering comments about her son. But there was no way he could really get her on his side for Jim and Stephen. At least, no way he could see in the short time they'd been working for MJN.

He tried to tell himself it wouldn't be so bad, but he'd seen the way Martin held himself to his full, if negligible height, and that sort of posture came with a large side of ego that Douglas wasn't sure he could take. He could resign, of course, but the thought of going home to Helena without a job was untenable. She already looked at him with pity because he worked for the charter firm (and because he never removed his rings, but until the strip of color finally bloomed on his skin, he wouldn't.) Having to linger at home tomorrow while he struggled through the humiliation of online job searches was too much to bear.

At length, he hauled himself to his feet and headed out to the plane, thankful they weren't actually booked for the day. Maybe... maybe Captain Crieff wouldn't be so bad, really.

\---

It took one flight for Douglas to decide that Martin was just as bad as the other toss-pots, but he'd give the young captain one thing: he's tenacious. When Douglas' quips and snark were a little too edged, Carolyn gave him her patented Look, but Martin didn't give in. He refused to go running as the other three had, though sometimes it was clear to Douglas that he'd like to.

And a year after he was demoted to First Officer, Douglas realized that he'd stopped minding quite so much. Oh, he'd still love to be captain, certainly. Putting on the jacket with only three stripes was always slightly humiliating, but no more so than sitting in his local of an evening and ordering sodding apple juice.

What made it bearable was the way it kept loneliness at bay. He knew he wasn't the first pilot to go on the wagon, but he refused to do it like it was some sort of show, and that meant keeping the illusion of him alive. Apple juice instead of whisky... and word games in the flight deck. Martin struggled, but he didn't back down, and he actually tried.

They were the best word games of his career, each one of them, and Douglas did his best to ignore that little realization.

Martin never spoke of his private life. He didn't flirt with cabin crew or clients. He never talked of someone at home. And the quieter he was on the subject, the more Douglas' curiosity was raised. He found himself watching Martin's hands as the man flew, wondering what the two rings he wore hid. And he kept watching subtly, he thought... right up until Martin caught him at it.

"They were my Dad's," Martin muttered, quiet but still loud enough to be heard over the engines as they flew to Cremona. 

"Hmm?" 

"The rings. They were my Dad's. I inherited them when he died." He nodded for Douglas to take the stick, then moved to show Douglas his hands, fingers splayed apart. Douglas wanted to argue that he hadn't been looking, but that game was obviously over, and Martin was being open with him... or open enough, anyway. "His wedding ring and his signet ring." 

"So you're not married then?" Douglas asked softly, raising an eyebrow in invitation to his young captain. Martin shook his head. 

"I'm waiting for my stripe." 

The flight deck fell silent. Those were intimate words, a confession beyond what you shared with colleagues, and they both knew it. It wasn't done, talking about the stripe. There were too many chances for Bad Things to happen when you did, and without even trying, Douglas could think of a dozen cutting quips that would reduce this intimacy to ribbons.

"I didn't."

Afterward, Douglas could say with all honesty - hand on heart, boy scout's honor - that he hadn't intended to speak a word. But the look Martin shot up at him was vulnerable and oddly trusting, and the younger man nodded once, a little more steady than he'd been just a moment before.

The conversation ended there.


	3. Fuchsia Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not about the color, except when it is.

The day Helena left was the day that Douglas first noticed the change to his hand. Over the course of his life, he'd gone from checking for new color daily to letting it slide, until it was a perhaps once-a-year thing. But lately, he'd noticed a new tension each time he took Helena in his arms, and the way her eyes bore into his whenever he asked her about her day told him more than she realized. Those last six months, he'd been obsessive about checking his left hand for any hint that whatever this new strain between them, Helena would weather it with him.

He couldn't even really say that the night she told him, his world had come crashing down. He liked the idea of all the drama, but at heart, he was too tired for it. And besides, it wasn't as though he were unfamiliar with the steps. He sat on their bed and watched her pack a suitcase. He escorted her to the door and promised to send her things once she was settled. He even kissed her cheek in much the same way he had on their first date.

And when the door was closed behind her, he made his slow way to the bathroom with the vague thought of a hot bath. He wanted to soak the misery away, so that perhaps tomorrow, he could rise and put his mask back on, and go into work without a hint of the pathetic creature he felt like that night.

"Really," he muttered, as he set the water to near-scalding and moved to get his music player. " _Tai chi._ " He hated the way those words sounded in his mouth, all full of rage and frustration. But he couldn't really blame her. Helena had tugged away her wedding ring to show him the rose-pink stripe of color beneath, and who was he to argue with soulmates? 

As the first strains of Barenboim's performance of the _Goldberg Variations_ crept into his consciousness, Douglas moved to the small ring holder by the sink and put his rings there, taking a moment to stare at his left hand with the wedding ring gone. No color there - just a lack of color, where sunlight had rendered a tan line that bothered him. He sank into the tub, leaning his head back against the tile, and rubbed his face.

And when he opened his eyes again, it caught his attention. Not the left hand, and that surprised him less than it, perhaps, should've done, but reflecting on the ring Imogen had offered him so long ago, he supposed that he should've been checking it more regularly. There, centered in another tan line, was a strip of gold that had nothing to do with his rings. He stared at it for long minutes, noting that it was vibrant though not particularly thick, and wondering if stripes were usually bright. He had rather a dearth of information there.

Arthur's was. It was impossible to miss the steady flash of fuchsia as he went about his work, and the vivid color rivaled his smile at times. He wondered, inwardly, what Carolyn's looked like, but he would never dare to ask her. 

When he ran his thumb over the stripe, he felt the very slightest of ridges, rather like a tattoo or a scar. It didn't feel any different, otherwise, and he sighed. The thought of going looking _now_ , just as his marriage had ended, felt like bad form. Oh, he wanted the company, because already the music was failing to hide the utter stillness of the house, but he'd been privy to enough one-night-rebounds to know that he wanted it to mean a bit more. 

Besides, he'd always expected to know when it showed up. Without that first flash of color on a new meeting, how was he to know who had painted her color around his finger? He was a pilot - it could be any number of women he'd met: cabin crew, clients... Eventually, he closed his eyes against the gold and tried to focus instead on the thread of piano and heat. After all, they had a flight to Gdansk tomorrow.

\---

"Douglas?" Martin's voice was a little hesitant, but not an unwelcome intrusion to his thoughts on the long flight, months later. Over the last two years, he'd grown rather fond of the MJN crew, though he'd deny it any chance he got. But they'd been a ray of sunlight on the dismal swamp of his life, and he found himself more and more protective of the little airdot. Douglas tugged his attention away from thoughts of Helena even as he pulled his eyes away from the twinkly lights of GERT-I's console. 

Martin heard his lazily inquisitive hum, and drew a quick breath before gripping the stick a little tighter. "Do you ever... I mean, did your family ever...," he started, trailing off at the important bit. Douglas chuckled.

"You'll have to be a little more specific, Martin," he teased. "My family did a great many things over the years. It would be hard to narrow it down by guesswork alone." He reached for his coffee, sipping it as he watched Martin nod sharply.

"Right," Martin agreed, his voice a little tight, but without the edge of panic that presaged catastrophe. "Right." He swallowed, and Douglas' eyes narrowed. "Right, right. Right." 

"Martin, is something troubling you?" Douglas finally asked, brows drawn together as he regarded his captain. "You've just agreed with me five times now... only I haven't offered five individual observations." As Martin looked at him, wide-eyed and clearly nervous, Douglas affected an amused smile. "One might even think you were a touch nervous."

"Nervous," Martin chuckled weakly. "Right." Catching himself on the verge of starting the repetition all over again, Martin turned back to the windscreen, staring at the clouds beyond. "It's just that I shouldn't be asking you."

"Asking me what?" Douglas couldn't quite dismiss the curiosity that formed. It was rare enough for Martin to confide in the older man, but they'd grown rather close in the flight deck, as hours spent together fostered an openness between them.

"About your stripe. Well, not _your_ stripe," Martin hastily amended, tripping over the words as he struggled with the conversation, and Douglas could immediately understand why. "About stripes. Or not having stripes. Or when you get stripes. I mean, did your family talk..." He trailed off miserably, tongue-tied and blood-red, and Douglas chuckled softly.

"Your family never gave you The Talk?" he teased lightly, unsurprised by the tight shake of Martin's head. Still, if the young man had never had a proper conversation about soulmates and stripes, well... it was down to Douglas to fix that, wasn't it, before he drove away one of their clients with an accidental untoward question.

"We have another four hours before we land, Martin," he noted, glancing at the instruments before turning his attention fully to Martin. "Plenty of time to answer any questions you might have." Four hours in flight, and no doubt another hour and a half before Arthur brought the cheese tray. Plenty of time, indeed.

"You mean...?"

"Ask away, Martin. I am at your disposal." 

Martin drew a long, slow breath, considering the invitation before finally speaking up. "How do you know who it's for?" His fingers eased their grip on the stick just a little, and Douglas found himself looking at the wedding ring on Martin's left hand. 

"Has yours shown up then?" he asked, surprised at his interest. But he was pleased for the man. Martin could only improve with a good soulmate behind him, encouraging him and helping him get a bit more confidence.

"I've had it for almost a year now," Martin admitted softly, biting at his lower lip and resolutely not looking in Douglas' direction at all. "I thought maybe it was a client, but... I don't think it is, and I don't have any idea how else to figure it out."

A year. Douglas blinked in surprise, closing his eyes for a moment as he thought back, trying to recall just what they'd been up to a year before. But his memory was hazy, and he finally shrugged. "When did you notice it?"

"When I took my rings off to sleep one night. I've tried everything I could think of. I checked the log books and the financial records."

"Records?" Douglas asked, then blinked. "Ah, for Icarus Removals?" Martin nodded miserably. "Any luck?"

"No way to tell," Martin admitted. "I mean, no luck in either of those places, but I'm just left... where else do I look? I looked up what the color meant, but that wasn't helpful, either."

Douglas snorted, even as his thumb shifted to play with the black and gold ring printed with the year of his daughter's birth. "That's because those sites are a load of bollocks. Color meaning, Martin? Really?" Martin huffed, but Douglas stretched one hand out to Martin, palm up as he invited Martin to show him. "What color is it, then?"

"I thought you just said that didn't matter!" Martin protested, looking down at the proffered hand before gripping the stick tightly again.

"I said that colors have no specific meanings. The reason there's color to the stripe is because the color corresponds to the way you think of your soulmate, but there's no rigid meaning behind it, Martin. Your family really didn't have the Talk with you, did they?" He could see the way Martin's pulse throbbed with his frustration in the slender column of his neck, and Douglas huffed softly.

"Martin, attend. Throughout the centuries, people have tried to put meaning where there was none, from the sun being a chariot-race each day to the color of your stripe meaning something specific. However, the only theory that has any concrete evidence behind it is the one that states that stripes are colored as they are in order to relate specifically to one's soulmate. Note Arthur's flamboyant fuchsia."

"Carolyn's not very flamboyant," Martin muttered, and Douglas honestly laughed.

"You don't think so? I could argue the point and we both know I'd win, but setting that aside, Arthur associates that color with his mum because she used to have fuchsias on the windowsill."

"How do you..."

"Arthur told me one day. Apparently, he used to eat the berries, 'til Carolyn caught him and panicked." Douglas smiled at the memory. "He was curious whether I knew if they were poisonous, because she'd just got a new flower in after twenty years, and he was excited to see if they were as tasty as he remembered."

"Are they?" Martin murmured.

"Not remotely. If anything, they'll help Arthur forestall a nasty case of scurvy." Douglas' eyes twinkled as he looked over to see Martin smiling. Really, when Martin saw fit to relax enough to really smile, he could almost rival the bright gleam of the gold braid on his cap.

"So they're... healthy then. Good," Martin nodded, relaxing a little. As he nodded and turned his attention back to the instruments, the gold braid on his cap flashed at Douglas, and Douglas' eyes widened sharply.

_Oh no..._


	4. A Place...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, Douglas was early.

It was a rare enough occurrence for Douglas to get to MJN on time, after the early days. Once he'd proved to Carolyn that he was capable of getting them out of the bother _du jour_ , he'd taken to arriving five minutes late, precisely. Carolyn would snark at him, but she never really talked to him about it. At least, not in the way employers do, so he'd made a game out of it. It didn't hurt that a simple five minutes wound Martin up just shy of apoplexy.

Today, he was early. In fact, he was early enough that the airfield hadn't even really opened yet, and he'd already done the walkaround and written the flight plan to stop himself really thinking. It hadn't worked, possibly because his mind was on a gold stripe on his finger, and gold braid from a hat. He hadn't slept since they'd gotten back from Limerick, but he was still safe to fly, certainly. He'd done far worse at Air England, after all.

The ring around his right middle finger, where black and gold spoke of the most important year in the universe, sat heavy on his hand, but he resisted the urge to tug it off. Having always been five minutes late when there wasn't a pick-up scheduled, he had no way of knowing just when Martin was due to arrive, and he wasn't about to share this little tidbit with the man.

_A place to trust your heart._

Douglas snorted, folding his hands over his stomach and staring out of GERT-I's windscreen at the treeline beyond the airfield. Carolyn's assessment of soulmates was idealistic and naively sweet, neither of which description he would've credited her with previous. But the fact remained that it was a ridiculous notion. There was no possible way that Martin was a safe place to trust his heart.

Except... Martin had given three months wages (such as they were, he reminded himself sourly) for a story he never spoke of. Martin's belief in Douglas was shining and bright, belying the tarnish and rust of Douglas' own belief. Martin trusted the older man while still accepting the myriad ulterior motives. And Douglas had found himself acting more and more out of a sense of community with MJN, rather than self-service.

What was he even doing anymore? It didn't bear thinking.

"Douglas?" Martin's voice caught his attention, and he blinked, glancing at the windscreen and noting the pearl grey of predawn. Of course Martin would arrive so early. He groaned. "Douglas, I saw your car. Are you up here?" 

Douglas had never really noted how elephantine footsteps sounded on the plane, but as Martin drew closer, the sounds shattered any remaining peace he'd found. He straightened, not quite sure what sort of mask to pull down over himself when Martin arrived but trusting one would work. What he didn't expect was for Martin's hand to settle on his shoulder, briefly, when he stepped between the seats and dropped into his own.

"What's wrong?"

Douglas forced his shoulders to relax, glancing over at Martin with a relaxed smile that hid the tightness in his chest. "What makes you think anything's wrong, Martin?" he asked, his voice lazy and teasing, and watched for the moment Martin's face closed down and he turned away.

It didn't come.

Instead, Martin sat forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together, fingers interlaced. His gaze, the color of sea-salt reflecting the sky, never left Douglas' face. "I know you," Martin murmured. The words were a sort of gentleness that Douglas wasn't immediately familiar with, and when the recognition came, he blinked. Martin was inviting confidence.

_A place..._

"My stripe's appeared." For once, Douglas was struggling to think through all the trailing ends. He couldn't quite see the chessboard laid out, and feeling around blindly was disconcerting. He turned the ring covering said stripe, and felt a tightness in his chest easing, just a little. Martin looked stunned.

"You mean..." The young man trailed off, and Douglas raised an eyebrow for him to continue. "I thought your stripe was already there," Martin finally admitted.

"Ah," Douglas nodded, and watched as Martin's eyes dropped down to the wrong hand, to the wrong ring. "No, not so much."

"You spoke about it so confidently, though." 

Douglas considered what to say before sighing. "When it didn't show up by my first marriage, I... made a bit of a study of it," he admitted. "It helped, knowing I wasn't the only one trying to figure things out."

Martin's lips quirked in a faint smile, and he looked down at his own hands. Douglas followed his gaze, watching the way the man's long fingers toyed with his father's signet ring. "I can understand that," Martin admitted softly. "Talking to you... well. I was in a bit of a panic before."

"Ah yes," Douglas nodded, his heart clenching a little. He'd always assumed that he'd have a proper relationship with his soulmate. "So you've figured it out, then?" When Martin looked up, there was a shyness in his eyes that tightened Douglas' chest.

"No. But... I'm okay with that. I mean, talking to you, I know that... that I can wait. Everything will become clear eventually, and it'll be better if I don't force the matter." Martin's mouth split in a warm smile, and Douglas found himself returning the smile as the pain in his chest eased a little.

_...to trust your heart._

"Martin?" Douglas murmured, twisting to face his captain. In the close quarters of GERT-I's flight deck, their knees almost brushed together, and Douglas' fingertips dusted Martin's knuckles as he moved, but the touch didn't linger. "Emeline's visiting this weekend. I wonder if you would join us for dinner?"

"What?" Martin blinked, startled out of the moment by the invitation. Douglas chuckled.

"She's been pestering me to introduce her to MJN," he explained, ignoring that her requests had fallen on deaf ears for years. "I thought perhaps a quiet dinner together would provide an easier place to talk than bringing her to the office." Martin's cheeks warmed a bit, and he reached up to rub the back of his neck as he looked away. "Besides," Douglas continued softly. "It seemed an appropriate way to thank you."

"For what?" Martin blinked.

"For this morning." Douglas drew a slow breath, then reached out to pat Martin's hand once, feeling the warmth of the skin under his palm for a brief second. "I feel much better."

"Good," Martin nodded sharply, a smile twitching at his lips as their eyes met again. "Good. Um... Saturday?"

"Saturday it is."


	5. What is a Soulmate, Really?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not a question either of them expected, and it left Douglas wrong-footed.

"You're going to propose to him, aren't you?" Emeline asked from the bedroom doorway, and Douglas looked up at her in surprise. She smiled fondly, moving to sit down at the foot of his bed as she watched him fuss with his tie. "You're not usually quite so formal for dinners with me."

Douglas finished the knot and slid the tie into place before smoothing his collar back down. As he moved to button the his cuffs, he sat down beside her. "A Windsor is hardly particularly formal, my dear," he informed her gravely, and the resultant peel of laughter drew an answering chuckle from him. "I'm not planning on proposing to anyone, Ems," he said, once their mirth had calmed a bit.

"You don't usually do the 'meet the family' bit unless there's a proposal in the air." She curled her arm around his and leaned against his shoulder, her thick hair cushioning her cheek from his shirt, and protecting the shirt from the makeup she'd applied. Douglas reached down to pick up her hand and hold it in his palm, staring down at the gold ring she'd started wearing as soon as she was old enough to trust her fingers wouldn't grow unduly. 

"I'm a bit too old to deal with another soulmate revelation, lovely," he murmured, covering her hand with his and watching the way it engulfed hers. "And his has already shown." He knew the smile he offered her was solemn, but she didn't pull away.

"Then tonight, we're just going to have to talk about the stripes, aren't we?" Emeline said firmly, giving his arm a final squeeze before pulling away to stand in front of him. As he opened his mouth to argue, she placed her hands on her hips, one eyebrow raising in a way that reminded him, oddly enough, of Carolyn.

"Will you eat my face off if I avoid the subject?" he asked, lips quirking, and Emeline grinned back at him.

"Only if your roast is dry. I don't have much of a taste for faces these days." And she bared her teeth, running her tongue along the straight white line in dramatic fashion before looking down at her hand. "Are you sure it's him?"

Douglas' response was slow as he got to his feet. "There are only two people in the world I associate with gold quite so much." It was and was not an answer, but he ignored that fact as the doorbell rang. Emeline's eyes darted over as though she could see beyond the walls to the door, and possibly beyond the door to Martin.

"I'll get it," she said with a sparkling grin. "You go check on the roast." And she was gone.

\---

By the time Douglas caught up with her, Emeline was already leading Martin in, letting him carry the bottle he'd brought without argument as she welcomed him. Douglas stepped forward, noting the way Martin's eyes widened in wary concern at his daughter's effusive chatter, and held out a hand for Martin to shake.

"Martin," he cut in, when Emeline stopped speaking. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you," Martin responded, eyeing the hand as though it were a snake for a moment before shaking it, and handing over the bottle. "For inviting me, I mean. I brought this. I thought we might share it... if it's right for dinner?"

Douglas caught the frown on Emeline's face from the corner of his eye, but nodded at Martin. "I think sparkling grape will go very well with the roast, Martin," he said, and Emeline's face immediately smoothed as she nodded. "The chatterbox there is my daughter, Emeline."

As Emeline curtseyed, Martin smiled awkwardly. "I've been meaning to say," she started, as Douglas led them into the living room. "Thank you for the sugar brick." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Martin groaned.

"Oh god," he muttered, rubbing one hand over his face. "We didn't mean..."

"No, I know," she assured him, reaching out to pat his arm. "Dad explained everything after Mum was done yelling at him. But it was funny. Well, after the fact." Douglas sat the bottle in the fridge, then moved to join them. 

"Dinner should be ready in another fifteen minutes," he offered. "Gives us a bit of time to chat. Would you like some tea, Martin?" As Martin looked up at Douglas, there was a faint hint of consideration in those sky-salt eyes. Douglas smiled at Martin, and a moment later, the young man smiled back at him, consideration fading in favor of warm.

"Tea would be nice," he agreed. "Emeline?" he turned toward her, and immediately blushed at the way she was looking between the two men.

"Call me Ems," she directed, waving Douglas to sit down. "I'll get the tea." Douglas nodded, sinking onto the couch as Emeline padded out of the room.

"She's beautiful, Douglas," Martin murmured, once she was gone. "I can see why you're so proud of her." As Douglas smiled, Martin continued. "Are you really sure you want me eating with the two of you, though? I mean, you're dressed..."

Douglas' gaze softened a little. "Ems' rather forthright. But you'll do just fine, Martin, as long as you're honest with her," he assured the young man. "She's not one to mock. She's just curious." He hesitated, debating what else to say before finally adding, "She'll probably ask you about stripes. She's been on a bit of a tear about them since Helena's departure."

"Oh," Martin's eyes widened, a warmth coming over his cheeks as he toyed with his father's signet ring anxiously. Douglas hesitated, fighting with himself for a bit before leaning over to rest his hand atop Martin's and stilling the fidgets.

"Honesty includes being truthful about whether you're willing to talk about it," he said gently, and was rewarded with a grateful look. 

"Then I can just say I don't want to talk about it?" he asked, just in time for Emeline's return with the tea tray. 

"Don't want to talk about what?" she asked, setting the tray down on the coffee table and moving to pour the first cup. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both, please," Martin murmured, glancing between the two before squaring his shoulders. "I'd rather not talk about soulmates and stripes, if that's all right," he said firmly. Douglas moved to pour his own cup while Emeline was handing Martin's to him. She was smiling at him, and Douglas could see the crinkles around her eyes that told him it was an honest smile. 

"Have you not... no, sorry. Forget it. I wasn't thinking," she stopped herself and sat back with her own cup of tea, watching Martin closely. Under her scrutiny, Douglas could see Martin's need to fidget returning.

"Fine," Martin finally burst out, sipping his tea quickly enough to burn his tongue. "Ask. I just... it's a private matter, I was always taught." He drew a breath through his teeth to help with the burn, and Douglas looked at Emeline for a moment before she nodded.

"Do you think a stripe can be for more than one person?" she asked softly. The question, directed at Martin, still wrong-footed Douglas, and he frowned as he looked at her. But Martin's head had tilted in thought, and his shoulders relaxed. 

"I don't...," he started, his words slow as he continued to think. 

"What is a soulmate, really?" Douglas found himself adding, as Martin trailed off, and was rewarded with two pair of curious eyes on him. He waited a moment, then explained gently, "A place to trust your heart." He looked first at Emeline, who blushed faintly and hid her face beneath the curtain of her hair, and then at Martin, who was staring at him openly.

Their eyes met, a faint line forming between Martin's brows as he stared at Douglas thoughtfully for long minutes. The silence stretched out, and then Martin smiled with an unexpected warmth.

"Yes," he said, still looking at Douglas, and the older man frowned in confusion. "Yes," Martin repeated, the word strengthening as he turned to look at Emeline finally. "A stripe could absolutely mean more than one person, I think." When he smiled at her, it was one of the most open, warm smiles Douglas had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer than I thought to find Emeline's voice, but I confess, I'm quite happy I didn't push it yesterday. I've done a lot of thinking about Douglas' daughter, but not so much AS her, so it was tricky to me.


	6. Sort of Squiggly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a dinner conversation is the most important one to have.

Douglas would reflect later that it was as though Martin had passed some sort of exam with that first question. Emeline's smile warmed, but it was Martin who changed the most. Douglas could see the instant his need to fidget stopped and he relaxed. It was encouraging.

"Was it very hard for you to figure out who your stripe belonged to?" Emeline asked, as Douglas reflected, and he rolled his eyes. He really needed to stop thinking and actually speak, since he'd invited Martin over.

Martin blushed, but interestingly enough, didn't go back to fidgeting. His smile faded, however. "A bit hard," he started. "I haven't yet. I mean, there was someone I was hoping it might be, but I can't really imagine it meaning him, and that's what's supposed to happen, right? That the sight immediately makes you think of the person?"

Douglas quashed the jealousy welling in his chest, forcing himself to smile gently. "Perhaps not immediately," he pointed out. "I've come across a few stories in my day that suggest they're based more on what you think of when you look at the soulmate, rather than vice versa."

"Stories?" Martin blinked, frowning at Douglas for a moment before his face cleared. "Oh, right. Your studies." 

"Exactly," Douglas nodded, looking over at Emeline for a moment before turning back to Martin. His daughter seemed content to let them talk. "There are a few places where people post anonymously stories of their soulstripe and soulmate discovery online. I could give you a few links, Martin, for when you're finally tired of Flight Simulator." 

"That's not the only thing I do on my computer," Martin countered, his cheeks a bit pink, and Emeline giggled. "But it doesn't handle the internet very well," he allowed.

"Your phone does, though," Douglas noted, sipping his tea before getting to his feet. Martin frowned as he followed suit. "Don't worry, Martin. I'm just going to check the roast. It should be ready in a moment." He looked over at Emeline, who popped up as well. "Would you show him to the table, my dear?"

"Of course," she nodded, waving Martin with her. 

\---

Emeline used the last of her roll to mop up a bit of gravy remaining on her plate, then sat back with a contented sigh as she popped it into her mouth. Martin looked at her, then cleaned off his own plate with a shy smile, though he didn't relax back into his chair after. "Douglas, that was amazing," he murmured.

"Thank you, Martin," Douglas said softly, as Emeline cleared her throat. 

"Do you suppose Carolyn's got a matching stripe for Arthur's?" she asked, pulling both men's attention back to the stripe conversation woven throughout the dinner. 

Martin cocked his head to one side, but Douglas shook his own head. "No. If she's likely to have anyone's stripe, I daresay it's her man she knows." 

"Her what?" Emeline blinked, but Martin tilted his head.

"You think so, Douglas?" he asked, frowning. "Is he really that trustworthy?"

"Carolyn's seeing a man," Douglas explained to Emeline. "But she's not very comfortable about the idea, so she doesn't use such terms." Turning to Martin, he looked thoughtful. "I suppose I think he'd probably be about as trustworthy as I would, should I love someone. So I pose the question to you: Am I that trustworthy?"

Martin's cheeks warmed to red, clashing with his ginger hair, and he looked away immediately. But it wasn't Martin who actually answered the question. Instead, Emeline piped up.

"More trustworthy than permanent marker, anyway," she teased, and Douglas laughed warmly, reaching to pat her hand.

"More to drink?" Douglas asked, reaching for the bottle. When they nodded, he split the last of it between the two before setting it down. "I'll put on some coffee for dessert."

"Coffee would be good," Martin nodded. "But... aren't permanent markers trustworthy? I mean, they are permanent."

"You'd think so, certainly," Douglas chuckled.

"They're not permanent when they're on skin, though," Emeline explained, sitting up. "I mean, I sort of knew it already, but it really hit home when I was... what, ten?" She looked at her father.

"Nine, and idealistic," Douglas replied smoothly.

Emeline got up from the table and moved to hug her father before sitting back down. "Anyway, he'd just reassured me that it was perfectly all right that Mum had found her stripe, because you didn't have to have a stripe to be happy, and he pulled off his rings."

Douglas shifted uncomfortably, then looked over at Martin and stopped. Martin was listening with rapt attention, his hands folded together in the space left when he'd pushed his plate slightly away. He leaned forward just a little, a hungry look in his eyes that nearly broke Douglas' heart.

"It's good he shared like that," Martin muttered, not really to anyone, but Emeline nodded.

"Yeah, but he wasn't all that convincing, really. When his rings were off, he had this sad look, and I really wanted it to go away, so I decided to draw a stripe for him." She grinned impishly, her cheeks pink. "But the only marker I had was a purple permanent marker. It lasted longer than others might, but it still washed away eventually." She pouted, but Douglas' eyes were locked on Martin.

The man's back had straightened dramatically, his lips parting faintly as he turned wide eyes to Douglas. "Was it... sort of squiggly?" The words, forced through a dry throat, were raspy, but they weren't nearly as telling as the desperate hope in his eyes.

"Emeline didn't have the steadiest hand at that age," Douglas confirmed softly, taking in the straight spine, the desperate gaze and the sandpaper words before reaching out to take Martin's hand in his.

"I didn't think it could be you," Martin whispered, and his shaking was faint enough that Douglas only knew because he was holding Martin's hand. "I mean, it didn't seem anything like you, but..." 

"Martin, does your stripe happen to be purple?" Douglas cut off the babbling, and Martin fell still for a moment before a massive smile bloomed on his face. 

"I...," he started, before pulling his hand free to reach for his rings. "I'll show you." Before he could pull it off, however, Douglas' hand came down to cover his. 

"Emeline's here, you know," he said gently. 

"I don't care," Martin said firmly, pulling his hands free with a confidence that reminded Douglas of taking off at St. Petersburg. But rather than pull off the wedding ring, Martin gripped the signet ring on his right middle finger, and tugged it free. The stripe under the ring was, indeed, a bit squiggly and purple, but Douglas recognized the sight immediately. The two men stared at each other silently.

And Emeline squealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've been trying to get to this reveal for the last three chapters. I didn't start the story with this in mind, but I woke one day with the knowledge that this is exactly the way things should happen, and then I had to figure out how to get there!
> 
> There's still at least one chapter left - I doubt there are any more, but quite frankly, this story wasn't meant to be this long in the first place.


	7. Not about You or Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when everyone's on the same page, navigation can be difficult.

Douglas closed Emeline's door quietly, then made his way to the kitchen, where Martin sat, nursing a coffee. "She rather wore herself out celebrating, I think," the older man observed, his voice muted, and Martin looked up with a warm smile.

"She did seem inordinately pleased," he admitted softly, stretching out his right hand toward Douglas in an invitation for Douglas to join him. The purple squiggle, still uncovered, called to Douglas as he made his own coffee. "Can I see it again?"

"I suppose, in the excitement, you didn't really have a chance to examine, did you?" Douglas nodded, taking Martin's hand as he sat down. The ring with Emeline's year on it was still in the dining room, where it had been abandoned only minutes after Martin's signet ring. When Martin's callused thumb brushed against the gold stripe, Douglas shivered sharply.

"You really think of me?" he whispered, anxious in a way that Douglas could so easily understand. Douglas thought of his second wife and the way her stripe had appeared, thought of the way she'd convinced both of them that the stripe was to do with him until life proved her wrong, and thought of her departure, a mere two weeks into their marriage. Oh yes, Douglas could understand with an ease he would never really admit to.

"There are only two people I associate with gold quite so much," Douglas assured him smoothly, and was treated to a shrewd look from salt-sky eyes. Martin's thumb brushed against the gold again, and Douglas pulled his hand free, only to beckon Martin up. "The living room?"

Martin rose more slowly, looking down at the stripe again. "That's why she wanted to know, isn't it?" he asked, rather than answering Douglas, but he willingly followed Douglas to the living room before hesitating. For his part, Douglas sank onto the couch, leaving his left arm free as he set the coffee on the side-table. But rather than sit with him, Martin sat his coffee beside Douglas, then started to pace. "Emeline's the other one you associate with gold. That's her year on that ring you have."

"I see Miss Marple has made a full recovery," Douglas teased lightly. "Yes. But..."

"No buts," Martin commanded, quirking a smile at Douglas. "It won't bother me if the stripe's meant to be both of us. But... you're certain it's me, too?"

Really, the lanky man was such a mixture of confidence and doubt. On his next pass, Douglas reached out to catch his hand and tug him down. Martin stumbled as he sank onto the couch, but rather than lean against Douglas, he pulled slightly away. "It's on your right hand," he pointed out.

"Ah," Douglas nodded, then glanced down at Martin's own hands, twined between his knees. "Oh. Yes, I see," he said, suddenly awkward. "Yours is, too, though?"

"I guess that's where we should start discussing, right?" Martin asked, looking at his own hands rather than at Douglas. "With limits?"

"And thus, you prove you are indeed my stripe," Douglas smiled. "Limits, yes."

"Having a stripe's just something people do," Martin shrugged, twisting on the couch so that his knee was pressed against the back, his shin angled along Douglas' thigh. "But being a stripe... that's an important job."

"Is it, now?" Douglas asked, hiding his smile behind the cup of coffee he was draining all too quickly. 

"As important as captain," Martin nodded, reaching out to touch Douglas' wrist. "You... like touch, then?" His fingers, long and thin, slid over Douglas' palm to twine with thicker fingers, left hand on left hand and remaining rings clinking together lightly. Douglas didn't bother trying to hide his faint and content sigh.

"Touch? Yes, to an extent. I'm not really all that interested in taking things too far, but then, neither are you." He nodded again to the squiggle. "I suppose I did get used to a certain amount of touch, though. Emeline's one for cuddles." Martin's hand squeezed his lightly, and Douglas squeezed back. "If you aren't, I can adjust, though, certainly. The stripes suggest that we're in this together, after all."

"That's why it was always so difficult for me," Martin admitted, pulling his hand away. Douglas mourned the loss of warmth for only a few moments before Martin leaned against his side, and Douglas had to fight to wiggle his arm up and around Martin's shoulders. "You can't really be too cautious, when you're worried about what someone's going to expect. Not everyone even thinks of the right hand."

"I didn't, until Emeline's mother," Douglas admitted. "I just assumed the awkwardness and discomfort were because the stripe wasn't there. She had other notions." His hand ran along Martin's upper arm, coaxing Martin into a tighter cuddle, and he could feel the way the tension began to unwind. "She was rather clever, of course. Emeline doesn't get all of it from me."

Martin laughed, his eyes closing as he leaned his cheek against Douglas' shoulder. "I just... well, I told you already, didn't I? I wanted to wait for the stripe." Douglas' rumbling chuckle seemed to encourage him. "But now... well, I mean, I'm not really up for..."

"Is this too much, Martin?" Douglas interrupted. Martin shook his head, pressing the slightest bit tighter to the older man.

"As long as it stays at this," Martin mused softly, "it's perfect. I just... well, I'm not _against_ it, exactly..."

Douglas nodded, looking down at the curly head on his shoulder and decided the forthright approach would be best. "Martin, we don't need to do anything we're not both completely comfortable with. If that means I never have sex again, I shan't miss it all that much, really." 

"But you'll miss it?"

Douglas rolled his eyes a bit, smiling as he leaned his cheek against the ginger curls. "All right, Martin. Let's stop dancing around the subject and lay our proverbial cards on the table, shall we? I'm not interested in having sex with you, certainly no more so than I'm interested in sex with Ems." Though he said the words with a calm force, Douglas could quite stop the shudder of disgust that ran through him at the very thought. "I am, however, interested in sleeping with you, if that's something you're interested in, too. I'm certainly interested in sitting here with you, or holding your hand on the tarmac."

Martin's cheeks bloomed with color, but he frowned. "Douglas, that doesn't make any sense. You said you _weren't_ interested in sex with me."

"Yes," Douglas snorted. "Amazing that, really, isn't it? Imagine a man not being interested in sex."

"No, you said you don't want sex with me," Martin huffed, pulling away to face Douglas again. "But then you immediately said you do."

"I'm quite certain I didn't," Douglas frowned, reaching up to run a hand through his greying hair, and Martin caught it, holding it tightly between both of his own hands.

"You did! You said you weren't interested in sex, but that you were interested in sleeping with me," he insisted, his teeth chewing on his lower lip, and his eyes so earnest that Douglas quashed the sudden urge to laugh.

"It wasn't an euphemism," he assured Martin. "I am interested in it. Or rather, in sleeping _beside_ you, you silly man. We have pyjamas." He twisted toward Martin, sighing just a little. "I like touch, Martin. I like hugs and cuddles, and even a bit of light kissing, as long as it's not particularly sloppy. I can do without, but I'd prefer not to."

Martin stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "I'm not really sure about the kissing," he admitted. "They haven't gone all that well for me before." His eyes shifted around the room before finally settling on their hands. "I don't think I'm ready to sleep beside you, either, but... we can see how it goes? We have time, right?"

"As much time as you need, Martin," Douglas said, smiling tenderly. "Does that mean you're more comfortable with the rest?" Martin nodded slowly, and Douglas pulled his hand free to tug him close. As Martin leaned against Douglas' chest, Douglas rested his cheek in Martin's hair. "It's not about you or me, Martin. It's about both of us," he whispered, lips brushing against Martin's scalp in an almost-kiss. "Trust in that."

Martin pulled his head back just enough to look up at Douglas, sky-salt eyes searching brown ones, and then he darted in to press the lightest of kisses against Douglas' cheek. Douglas smiled warmly, moving to press his own lips against Martin's forehead gently in reply, and Martin settled against him once more.

"I do, Douglas. Of course I do."

"Hey Chief," Douglas responded, his voice barely above a whisper. "So do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends the story. As a return from writer's block, this story is pretty special to me, and I'm quite pleased with how it all worked out, but I do have someone specific to thank:
> 
> [Spuffygirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Spuffygirl/pseuds/Spuffygirl), thank you so much for sharing with me your thoughts and questions throughout the story. Those questions helped me to understand when I hadn't been completely clear about something. I hope at this point your questions are mostly answered!
> 
> For those who might have felt cheated by the lack of Ace tags from the beginning: while ace!Douglas was always my intention, I didn't want to force it on the character if it didn't feel right. As it happens, it really did, but by then I'd forgotten to include the tag, and it took me a few chapters to remember. Sorry about that. Also, I'm very aware this is just one version in the grand spectrum of Ace, but this is the version that felt right to me. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who stopped to read this story. <3


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